


War paint

by reisana_devlin



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Blind Betrayal spoilers, End Game Spoilers, F/M, Pin-up Danse, Spoilers, This is just a tribute, tribute to the war buggy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5770471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reisana_devlin/pseuds/reisana_devlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danse needs a birthday present for Sole.  He gets an idea from Hancock that is horribly wrong and would never happen in a normal universe. Good thing this is a crack fic tribute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	War paint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SmallestGrackle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallestGrackle/gifts).
  * Inspired by [HANCOCK NO](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5574848) by [SmallestGrackle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallestGrackle/pseuds/SmallestGrackle). 



> In addition to the original war buggy fic, there's also this lovely pin-up Danse picture [here](http://itsprecioustime.tumblr.com/post/137302628483/danse-is-very-enthusiastic-about-recruitment). Friendly reminder this is a tribute and crack fic where I inserted my Sole Survivor instead of using the default Nora.

Danse felt uncomfortable standing in Hancock’s office. Goodneighbor’s existence still rankled against his Brotherhood of Steel sensibilities despite being a synth himself. He still disliked having to tag along when Sofia traded excess goods with KL-E-O and Daisy, especially with how comfortable Sofia was dealing with non-humans and non-human synths. He had to remind himself that Sofia treated him the same as—no, better than—everyone else she came into contact with.

“Well, well, well,” Hancock rasped, breezing past Danse to sit in his worn leather rolling chair. He leaned back and kicked his boots on top of his desk, crossing his ankles and settling in comfortably. The ghoul adjusted his hat and reached for an inhaler sitting by, taking a hit and exhaling slowly before he clasped his leathery hands together across his stomach. “You said you have business with me?”

Danse shifted uncomfortably in his power armor, cursing himself for taking this avenue to find a good birthday gift for Sofia. He cleared his throat and began pacing back and forth in front of Hancock’s mahogany desk. He still hadn’t forgiven them for stealing an all-terrain vehicle from the Brotherhood of Steel, but since his expulsion, it was a blessing in disguise. Sofia maintained responsibility for it as she had the other duties and equipment formerly issued to Danse.

“You’ve been traveling with Sofia lately since she’s been running ops for the Brotherhood,” he began, shuffling back and forth in a small circle on the threadbare area rug. “Her birthday is coming up, and I wanted to give her a surprise, but…”

“Say no more, my misguided tin can,” Hancock drawled, dragging his boots off the desk. “I have something that will redeem you following the unfortunate incident with the war buggy.”

“Redeem me?” Danse growled, clenching his hands into tight fists. “You and Deacon stole an all-terrain vehicle—“

“That _you_ were stupid enough to leave a power core in, making it _your_ fault that we poor second-class civilians were able to commandeer such a fine vehicle,” Hancock interrupted, a crooked smile splitting his wrinkled raisin face. Danse had to suppress the sudden urge to punch the smile off the stupid ghoul’s face—yes, he had left that power core in, but they didn’t have to ride off in it! He glowered at the smug ghoul who was busy reaching into a cooler and popping the caps off some Gwinnett Ales.

“Take a cold one, my friend,” the ghoul said, extending an ice cold beer as an apology. “I have the remedy for this little problem of yours. Have you seen pre-war mags, the ones with the pin-up gals?”

Danse accepted the beer and took a swig, glaring at the ghoul. He nodded and took another large gulp, glad for the drink stopping his tongue. He feared he would have more verbal insults to hurl if he wasn’t occupied with the cold brew.

“So,” Hancock continued, flipping a cap absentmindedly, “some military vehicles had pin-up gals painted on the side. Given the long tours without the comfort of a girlfriend or wife, some men were lucky enough to pilot planes in bombing campaigns against Chinese assets. Pilots even named their planes after a particular pin-up or an ideal- the bigger the tits, the better the decal.”

Danse chugged his beer to hide his concern. Something was definitely wrong with the direction of this suggestion. He didn’t like it one bit.

“I know a guy, a painter,” Hancock continued, his grin spreading. “He mostly deals with abstract concepts, but he does the occasional portrait commission. We could go see him downtown. Obviously, we’ll have to avoid your Brotherhood’s patrols because as I understand it, you’re _persona non grata_ to them now. No worries, though. I know my way around the harbor area pretty well, so we won’t have any issues. You’ll just need to convince our dear Sofia to part with the war buggy for a day or two. She’d love parading around town in her own war machine with you as a big fuck-you decal for that delusional elder of yours. And you can just be in your power armor! You won’t even have to strip.”

Danse tensed, slamming the empty bottle down hard against the desk. Hancock’s grin faltered, and he scooted back in his wheeled chair, hoping to put enough distance between him and the tin can bruiser glowering at him. To his surprise, the former paladin grabbed another beer and began drinking it in sullen silence. The ghoul hooked his thumbs into his belt and took note of the quickest escape routes should Danse decide on ripping his head off instead.

“I’ll do it,” the synth said after an extended pause, sighing and draining the last of his beer before tucking the empty bottle into a nearby wastebasket.

 

Danse was going to murder Hancock. They were nearly discovered by a random Brotherhood patrol and managed to save themselves by luring a pack of Raiders out, creating a perfect diversion and solving two very uncomfortable problems with one loud firefight. They dipped into the alley and made their way to the bright red door.

Hancock lit a cigarette and waved Danse through the door, closing it shut behind them. They walked over the debris and junk collected on the floor; it was so thickly scattered that it crunched and crumbled under their feet. The ghoul dragged heavily on his cigarette, holding the hit and releasing it slowly, smoke curling out of his empty nose cavity and along his weathered cheeks. He tapped the ashes carelessly on the ground and kicked a bent aluminum can away with a sharp swipe of his dog-eared boot.

“The lighting in here is below minimum safety requirements,” Danse muttered, cans crushing under his heel. “I don’t like it one bit.”

“Relax, buckethead,” was the quick quip from the smoking ghoul, “we just gotta go underground, in the basement. This is just where he houses the trash pieces to discourage raiders.”

The two companions (if that could be said) wandered through the side rooms, the former paladin admiring the paintings hanging on the walls. Danse took his time studying each one, ignoring the chuckles from his temporary partner in this quest to create a gift worthy of his Vault girl, his pre-war darling. When he reached out to run a finger along the dried ridges of paint on one of the hanging canvas frames, Hancock stepped in and waggled his fingers before pointing the paladin ever forward to the door, gesturing to the entry way and the stairs leading down under the gallery. After stepping over and around puddles of water and dried radroach husks, they came to a room with mounds of dirt skewered with random shovels, a lone framed canvas hanging on a brick column. Down below, a pile of naked bodies lay crumpled on the floor, a single work light shining directly on the corpses. The stench was horrendous, and it permeated the air like fog. Danse was repulsed by the decay, but Hancock didn’t bat a desiccated eyelid.

“Now, I’m told that what’s happening today is you’re gonna give a series of poses,” Hancock rasped as they descended down a final set of stairs. “He’s got a studio complete with lights set up down in the deepest part of this labyrinth of his. You’re gonna do these poses, and he’s gonna pick the most flattering pose to use for the decal. He’s a genius with human anatomy, as it were. Even though you’re a tin can with a sack of human flesh covering all the wires and stuff, I’m sure he can work with you.”

Danse scowled at Hancock. Before he could open his mouth to skewer the ghoul, a cough rose up behind them, politely reminding them they were no longer alone. Danse whirled around and began reaching for his laser rifle but paused when he saw the ghoul tip his tricorne hat with a heavily exaggerated flourish of the wrist and a deep bow.

“Pickman, you scag,” Hancock said, rising from his bow. “It’s about time you showed your face. This is the guy I was telling you about, the one that wants to pose for his girlfriend for a gift. You always wanted to paint a pin-up, and now you have the perfect opportunity. Take some pictures because he’s not staying; I know what you do to your subjects.”

The man Hancock identified as Pickman circled them slowly, adjusting the glasses on his face before pointing at the dais in the middle of the room. Danse shrugged and stomped over to the platform. He removed his helmet and shook his head, tousling his thick hair and shaking off some of the sweat that beaded along his forehead and the back of his neck. He set the helmet down on a nearby stool and reached for a towel when he heard a hum of approval from the artist, who cradled a working flash camera in his hands.

“Must I use paint on the vehicle?” the man asked wearily, throwing the camera strap over his head. “I find there could be other mediums that would better suit such a fine specimen of war and hate—“

“Pickman, use the damn paint,” Hancock snapped, his patience wearing thin. “Your usual medium isn’t gonna hold up to the stress of being a fucking Brotherhood of Steel war buggy. We need this to last until the wheels fall off that fucker. Sofia is not a good driver, but she doesn’t have to be. It just won’t do if the art peels or washes off before the buggy has seen its last jump, however.”

The man sighed wearily, shoulders drooping before he hefted the camera up to his face. He peered through the camera and began adjusting the lens, tiny swivels clockwise and counterclockwise before finding the sweet spot for the first shot. He clicked the button and the flash sparked, blinding Danse. Wobbly spots of many colors swam in his field of vision before he heard a voice bark out a series of commands.

 

“Chin up.” _Snap!_

“Shoulders back.” _Snap!_

“Grab that helmet. Cradle it like a football. No, a baby. No no no, back to football.” _Snapsnapsnap_!

“Lift your leg.” _Snapsnap_ **POP!**

“Open your eyes and turn your head towards the sound of my voice. Keep cradling the football and hold that leg up. Relax your ankle.” _Snapsnapsnapsnap_.

“Stop smiling. You’re a harbinger of death.” _Snap_.

“Lower your leg. Walk forward a step and hold. Juuuuuuust like that.” _Snapsnapsnap_.

“Bring the leg back. Turn left. No, your left, not my left. How many lefts does a paladin have?” _Snapsnap_.

"Put the helmet on, but don't lower it all the way. Hold it right there." _Snapsnapnsnapsnapsnap_.

“Lift your leg up, to your knee, like you’re about to start walking, but keep looking in the direction of my voice, not all the way, but mostly towards me.” _Snapsnapsnapsnapsnapsnapsnap_!

“Just like that! Hold it! Excellent.” _Snapsnapsnapsnap_.

“Hold the helmet down at your side, arms close, and salute with your free hand. There we go!” **Snapsnapsnappop**!

“Hancock, are you sure I cannot—“

“If you so much as finish that sentence, Sofia’s gonna kill me, then she’s gonna come here and kill you. Don’t even fucking think about it.”

“Fine. Remove the helmet and hold it out so the withered colonial hack can take it. Now, assume a ready boxing stance. Better yet, no. Let’s nix that idea.”

 

The black of night was broken by pale ribbons of grey and and orange and blue when the pair finally emerged from Pickman’s Gallery. Danse was still seeing spots and lines and squiggles in his vision from the camera’s incessant flashes. Hancock was chuckling and slapping his back as they made their way along the quiet streets. They picked over the bodies of the Brotherhood patrol and the unlucky squad of raiders. Hancock selected all the useful junk and loaded it into a spare duffel bag for Danse to carry back to Sofia.

“So, I’ll cover for you,” Hancock said over his shoulder nonchalantly. “That paltry sack of junk you’re taking back jives with the lines of bullshit I fed Sofia. You should be good at least until I make off with the war buggy. I’ll bring it back when Pickman’s done working his magic. The man is a true artist in every sense of the words ‘tortured’ and ‘starving.’ I still wish Sofia had put two in his head, but we wouldn’t be standing here if she did.”

Danse nodded slowly, murmuring his thanks as he hefted the bag of junk over his shoulder. He had a long journey back, and he was already starting to regret this trip. His legs were sore from holding poses while Pickman photographed away with his snappy and poppy flashy camera. His eyes felt scratchy and raw from all the blinding flashes of light, and he just wanted to lay down and sleep for a bit. He could go a few miles before finding a place to crash before the Brotherhood patrols picked up. He couldn’t explain the twin feelings of dread and giddiness nestled in his chest, making him swell with pride and fear over planning a gift for his Sentinel.

 

A week later, Danse hung in the doorway of Sofia’s house, keeping an eye out for Hancock and the buggy. Sofia had agreed to let Hancock take it down to another settlement for repairs, slightly suspicious but grateful for him stepping up to take responsibility for some of the structural damage done over time when flying down the deserted streets of Boston, porcelain tub side car clattering and “Ride of the Valkyries” composed by Wagner blasting over the tinny speakers. Danse was shaking his head when he heard the beginning notes rising over the hills. He winced and fought to keep the Wazer Wifle in his hands steady, cringing harder when he realized what weapon he was holding in his hands. His knuckles paled as his fingers gripped the stock and barrel tightly. Something was amiss.

"Hey, loverboy,” Sofia murmured as she wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his worn flannel shirt. “Why are you hanging here like clothes on a line instead of mingling with the rest of the people? It is a party in my honor, after all.”

Danse grunted, but relaxed his grip on the Wazer Wifle and set it carefully on the gun rack behind the door. Sofia’s kid had done a spectacular job creating and modding a basic laser rifle so it would fire from the cells without needing to be hand-cranked or reloaded. It had quickly become his favorite weapon. With a sigh, Danse patted the gun and left it in its place. There would be time later to destroy Hancock if he ruined the war buggy— _ **ALL-TERRAIN VEHICLE, IT’S AN ALL-TERRAIN VEHICLE,**_ Danse reminded himself—or the surprise of the pin-up styled portrait painted on the driver’s door. A wave of self-consciousness rolled over him until he realized he was standing in an open doorway with a beautiful woman embracing him and slipping her hand down the front of his jeans. He gently extracted the hand and pulled her around to plant kisses along her lips and cheeks when she protested feebly. His burning trail of kisses along her lips, her cheeks, the pale column of her throat promised a night of lust and pleasure, but she pulled away when she heard the high-pitched honking of the ATV’s horn.

“Hancock,” she cried, squirming out of Danse’s embrace, “you finally made it, you slack-jawed ruffian! And you brought back the war buggy in better condition than I left it!”

“Greetings and birthday wishes,” the ghoul rasped, his face split into a grin that chilled Danse where he stood. There was a plastic sheet covering the driver’s door, and Sofia noticed it as she approached to help Hancock unload the contents of the passenger side car. She jabbed her finger in the direction of the plastic-covered mystery, her thick eyebrows quirked upwards in an unspoken question.

“Oh, that?” Hancock said, laughing. “Danse, you old cog. Come here and show the lovely Sofia, sole survivor of Vault 111 and many incidents hence, what lies beneath the plastic sheet.”

Danse narrowed his eyes but smiled, his lips pulled into a thin line. He walked over, cursing himself for not even carrying the tiny peashooter he normally left stuffed in his boots as a back-up. With one strong arm wrapped around Sofia he pulled her close, walked them over to the driver side door and reached for the plastic sheet. Hancock had said this Pickman guy was a genius with paint, and from what Danse had seen from their trip to the gallery, it was going to be anatomically correct and not at all cartoonish like the Grognak comics. He sunk a fingernail into the plastic and began tugging at it until a rip formed, tugging hard on the plastic once a sizable tear split the sheeting in two….

Sofia’s squeal of delight soothed Danse, until he realized she was running her fingers along….

 _Oh no_.

 **Nononononononononononononono**.

This was worse than those Darkest Area shows made by that Sterling (Steeling? Serling? Sterl?) guy. At least the Darkest Area TV show was fiction, and it made you think on the most enigmatic mysteries and horrors of man. What was painted on the door of the war buggy was beyond all mere horror—Danse felt a wave of nausea rise quickly in his throat as he realized he was staring at a very anatomically correct pose of himself saluting and holding his power armor helmet, knee hiked up like he’s marching and…..

HE WAS WEARING NOTHING BUT HIS SHOULDER PLATING AND ARMORED BOOTS.

How had Pickman gotten his dimensions correct? Danse wracked his mind. He had sobered up by the time he and Hancock had arrived at the gallery that day. He didn’t take any drugs that Hancock offered him. He dug into his brain frantically until he remembered the piles of bodies and how some of them were very physically fit—as fit and muscled as he was— just before their untimely demise at the hands of the Commonwealth.

Danse’s jaw slackened as a low whine of denial built in his throat. His eyes locked on the decal, and he didn’t notice the rest of the companions had come outside to see the commotion over the buggy. Piper and Sofia were squealing and dancing a maddening jig on the sidewalk, and MacCready had offered him a martini glass of something dark with an umbrella in it. Danse pushed it away and began stumbling for a nearby lawn chair. His legs threatened to simply give up and collapse with each step he took until he managed to crash into the chair. Codsworth floated by and dropped off a bottle of dark whiskey, recalling a time before the war when Mr. Campbell would flop in the chair the same way and request a bottle of bourbon or whiskey.

As he poured several fingers of whiskey into an empty glass, Danse braced his feet and wobbled in the rickety lawn chair as Sofia launched herself into his lap. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the lips, pulling away when she noticed he didn’t return the kiss. He rocked in the lawn chair, feeling very foolish and desperately wanting to murder Hancock in his smug raisin face with the Wazer Wifle. He could almost feel the weapon in his hands and the recoil of the fusion cell discharging its payload into the man. He hung his head and sighed before Sofia tipped his chin up and tapped her fingers along the side of his stubbly jaw.

“Danse,” she said softly, “I love it! I can’t believe you’d deface a Brotherhood of Steel-issued all-terrain vehicle for me! It reminds me of the old pre-war planes. I can’t wait to take it out on my next mission in the Commonwealth!”

“You really like it?” he asked quietly, his spirits perking up despite the wrench Hancock managed to throw into this horrible idea. “I was told I was going to be painted in my power armor, like a pin-up. I didn’t realize I’d be…almost nude.”

Sofia’s light chuckle warmed him as she reached for the glass of whiskey and took a sip, scrunching her nose as she swallowed. She tilted the glass towards him, and he accepted it gratefully, his throat very dry and prickly like the cacti on the desolate planes of the New Vegas desert. He quaffed the whiskey silently, thanking the forces of fate for bringing him such an understanding and mischievous girl.

“After seeing the tits hanging off the sides of planes from before the Great War and seeing the mock-ups of pre-war pin-up girls on vertibirds,” she said lowly, “few other women can say they have their well-endowed man painted on the side of her war vehicle. I imagine Maxson will be furious, but he has to respect my wishes. Technically, I’m a widow twice-over.” She flashed him her most wicked grin.

Danse finished the glass of whiskey and set it down on the patio table next to them, curling his hands around her soft waist. He kissed her gently on the lips, ignoring the catcalls and boos from Hancock and MacCready, before picking her up and walking into their house. Piper hastily beat feet out, holding Shaun’s hand as she led the small child quickly away. Danse kicked the door shut and silenced Sofia’s gasp with his hungry lips as he kissed her again on the mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the sources of inspiration for this crackfic. Many thanks to my betas (SKB, Seren, and mme-curie) for their input, advice, and encouragement.


End file.
